


we counted all our reasons (excuses that we made)

by seasidhe (sidhedcv)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, brief mentions of Rome/Byzantium, brief mentions of Scotland/France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-03 00:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16315835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidhedcv/pseuds/seasidhe
Summary: “You’ll see different marks representing different things, and they’ll spread on your body and they could even change with time.”“But why do we have these marks?” he asks, simply, climbing up on his father’s knees. Rome smiles again, ruffling his hair with one, callous hand.“They’re meant to represent your soulmate.”“My soulmate?” Francis suddenly perks up, bright eyes looking intently at Rome. “We have a soulmate too?”“Why wouldn’t we?”“I thought only normal humans had soulmates. I didn’t think we did too.”*The day the first mark appears on his arm, Arthur just pretends it isn’t there. He looks at the small, delicate design — he observes the pale, violet flowers and the lean leaves and then just stops thinking about it. Or at least he tries.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> a) Callum is obviously Scotland.  
> b) [re: castles in the sky] Rome/Byzantium is my one and only love, I have written so many things about them and maybe one day I'll translate everything. Just know that whenever I talk about Rome, there's Byzantium too.  
> c) [re: meditation and ] I have this very angsty headcanon that I really fucking hate: there are times (like the Golden Age of Piracy for Arthur or the French Revolution for Francis or WWII for Ludwig) when they kinda... dissociate? Because there's too much going on or they don't necessarily agree with what's happening or they're forced to do things or they're just fucking scared. I mean, centuries of existence without any trauma or disorder? I don't think so.  
> d) [re: void and point c] WWII is one of those moment for him too, I hc Francis just going through Vichy France without really _being there_. Like the worst possible defense mechanisms you could imagine.  
>  e) [re: telepathy] The other two people are, of course, North and South Italy.
> 
> If you're curious about the timeline: _cycle, parallel_ and _astral projection_ \- **roman empire** ; _long distance bonding_ and _castles in the sky_ \- **early middle ages** ; _time_ \- obviously **wars of the roses** ; _labyrinth_ \- **marriage of Mary, queen of Scots to the Francis II, king of France** ; _sleep paralysis, meditation_ and _mesmer_ \- **golden age of piracy** ; _doppelgänger_ \- **fashoda incident, 1898** with a slight mention of the french revolution; _void_ \- **wwi and wwii** ; _telepathy_ \- **post wwii**.
> 
> all the prompts are written for [Lande di Fandom](http://www.landedifandom.net) @ thINKtober.

_control_

Francis likes being in control of his life.

There aren’t many people who would think so — in fact he can count on one hand the number of people who know this particular aspect of his personality.

He always looks like the spontaneous kind of man, the fun-loving guy who does everything just because he feels like doing it. And maybe there’s also some truth to this, maybe there are some things he does just for fun. Simple, little things that don’t really matter in the grand picture of his life.

The thing is, beyond all appearances, Francis needs to be in control of his own life. Francis needs to know where his life is going, needs to know what’s gonna happen next, needs to be certain who his friends are — and who his enemies are. Francis thinks twice before he speaks, thinks twice before he acts and is perfectly happy almost everyone else thinks he’s just annoying and foolish and a little bit dumb.

Being surrounded by, literally, a whole world that underestimates him has always been a great advantage.

Of course not every single one of _them_ thinks he’s stupid, there are people who know him too well to trust his little tricks. Callum knows him too well, has known him for too many years and has never been fooled by his act — but that’s okay, he’s one of the few people Francis actually trusts. Antonio is his _brother_ and of course he knows everything about him.

Ludwig always knew, and that had been a problem for a long time, until just recently. His father always knew the truth, but that doesn’t matter anymore — _Father isn’t here anymore_.

He’s fairly sure Arthur knows too — the perks of centuries of acquaintanceship and neighborhood — but he isn’t really certain. Arthur always acts like he _sees_ Francis just like everybody else sees him, and then always does something to prove he knows that’s not the truth. Francis still isn’t sure if that’s just a coincidence or something else.

The fact is: he can count on one hand the number of people who really know him. And while everybody else underestimates him, Francis goes on micromanaging his life and making sure everything is perfect, just the way it should be.

To his great dismay, there are things he can’t control.

 

_cycle_

The first time Francis finds out about soulmates, he’s almost too young to care. A few crooked lines are starting to manifest on his lower back and while those lines aren’t enough to form even the smallest discernible mark, he still has questions.

His father talks about how those lines will eventually form various images of various things — _like those blue tattoos we saw in Caledonia, father?_ he asks, feeling almost interested.

Rome laughs, with that fond look in his eyes that Francis loves so much, and honestly? He’s pleased he made his father laugh and everything else doesn’t really matter.

“In a way, yes. You’ll see different marks representing different things, and they’ll spread on your body and they could even change with time.”

“But why do we have these marks?” he asks, simply, climbing up on his father’s knees. Rome smiles again, ruffling his hair with one, callous hand.

“They’re meant to represent your soulmate.”

“My soulmate?” Francis suddenly perks up, bright eyes looking intently at Rome. “We have a soulmate too?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“I thought only normal humans had soulmates. I didn’t think we did too.”

“We do,” Rome murmurs, suddenly looking sadder than he’d like. Francis looks at him with a questioning gaze and after a few seconds of silence, his father sighs. “There’s a chance your soulmate could be a mortal.”

“But...”

“I don’t know why, kid. It’s cruel and unjust, I know, but that’s just how life is. It’s a small chance, though, in my whole existence I’ve only met one of us with a mortal soulmate.”

“But how do I know exactly who my soulmate is? And what if they don’t love me back — is that possible? That’s not possible, right? That would be—” Francis stops talking when he sees the sad look in Rome’s eyes. That look means _it is possible_.

“Life is complicated, Francis. You may not be able to recognize your soulmate. There’s the possibility you’re not the soulmate of your soulmate. You could have multiple soulmates and there are even people who don’t have one.”

“I really don’t like this.”

“It’s just something you need to know. This doesn’t mean you _have_ to find your soulmate, you could just go on and live your life and be happy without one.”

But Rome looks into Francis’ eyes and it’s with deep sorrow in his heart he realizes the kid just wouldn’t be able to.

 

_parallel_

Nothing could have prepared Francis for what he feels like when the first discernible mark forms on his skin.

Spreading from his lower back there’s a tangle of dense arching stems, covered with prickles, with green leaves and small white flowers. He doesn’t really understand what kind of plant is that — or _why_ there’s a plant growing on his back.

A few days later, some of the flowers have turned into small black fruits and Francis is even more skeptical.

“They’re blackberries, aren’t they, father? Why do I have _blackberries_ on my back? What does that mean? Does this mean that my soulmate loves blackberries? I don’t understand.”

 

_astral projection_

The first time Francis meets Arthur, he’s thinking about his soulmate. He’s not supposed to be there — his father warned him against wandering off the camp and Francis almost didn’t realize how far he went while he was thinking.

He winded up in a vast field and he doesn’t see its end nor its beginning. He supposes one could say he’s kind of lost. But that doesn’t matter: he’ll find the way back and his father will never know what happened. It’s not like there’s some kind of danger in a blooming field alongside the deep forest.

And that’s when Francis first think about his soulmate. There are several bushes full of blueberries, just like the ones on his lower back — just like the ones that are meant to represent his soulmate.

Francis still doesn’t know what those marks should really mean: does it means his soulmate really loves blueberries? Or does it mean something more figurative like _his soulmate is both difficult because of the thorns and sweet because of the fruits_?

Honestly, he finds this whole thing too much complicated for his taste. He just wants to know who his soulmate is and then go on with his life — or maybe he just wants to know how much and for how long he’ll have to suffer.

Or maybe he just wants to know who his soulmate is because there’s still a small chance he could be happy? In love with someone who loves him just as much as he does? With someone like him, someone who’ll live forever?

But his only clue is a stupid blueberry bush and there’s no way he could recognize his soulmate with only that.

And exactly while he’s cursing the whole universe and this whole task, he looks up towards the bushes and the forest and _there’s someone there_.

Francis fights to keep down a surprised yelp: he doesn’t know who the other boy is, he doesn’t know what the other boy wants. They’re in the middle of a military campaign and it’s possible the boy is not alone.

Francis doesn’t move, doesn’t talk — he just stares at the other boy and tries to figure out what he’s doing. He has blonde hair, is clearly one of the locals and seems to be very interested in picking all the blueberries he can found. Francis doesn’t move, doesn’t talk and a few minutes later, the other boy runs away.

He found a boy picking blueberries exactly while he was thinking about his soulmate. Is that a coincidence? Is that a sign from the universe? While he walks back to the camp, he can’t help but wonder if he will ever know the truth.

 

_long distance bonding_

In the midst of the stems, a lion rises.

The mark is very simple, very minimal. Francis looks at his own back in the mirror and slowly traces the outline of the animal. He brushes the few, black lines with his fingertips and marvels when he can almost _see_ the lion leaping forward with a powerful roar.

The lion wears a crown, as simple as the rest of the tattoo, and Francis can’t help but wonder what could that mean.

_I’ll ask Father,_ he quickly decides. Then he remembers that his father is gone and everyone he loved is far away and he’s alone, trying to survive the fall of everything he knew.

He can’t ask anyone — and in a situation like that, he shouldn’t even be thinking about something as foolish as this whole soulmate thing.

Francis covers the mirror and leaves his room, ignoring the feeling of the lion’s mark almost burning on his skin.

 

_castles in the sky_

It’s not until years later than Francis understand the impact of what he saw in that mirror. He still has the same tattoo: bushes of blueberries and a roaring lion with a crown, and it doesn’t matter that he still doesn’t know _who_ his soulmate is.

Francis still has the same tattoo, centuries later. That means his soulmate is still alive, that means is soulmate is one of them, just like him.

He remembers his father explaining him how the marks fade and vanish when and _if_ your soulmate dies. He remembers the day of his father’s death and Antonio’s tears and Byzantium’s cries of horror in front of the mirror — and he _has_ to close his eyes and force that memory out of his mind. It’s too soon, it’s too early, it’s too painful.

His tattoo is still there, growing steadily from his lower back, and that means his soulmate is one of them. His soulmate could be someone he has already met, his soulmate could be someone he’ll eventually meet in the future.

Not that this makes any easier the task of finding out _who_ his soulmate is: this whole _interpreting marks that represent another person and figuring out who that is_? Francis scoffs, feeling more disillusioned than ever.

There’s a chance he’ll never really understand.

 

_time_

Between bushes of blueberries and a roaring lion, grows a single stem with two roses, one white and one red.

Francis sits on his bed, right in front of the mirror, and asks himself once again if there’s any answer to that question, if there’s any truth to the thought he can't drive away.

Blueberries, a roaring lion, two roses. As much as he tries, Francis can’t stop thinking about one particular person who matches those characteristics.

Blueberries, a roaring lion, two roses; Francis sighs, running a hand trough his hair, trying not to look again at the mirror.

Blueberries, a roaring lion, two roses: there’s no sense in denying the truth any longer.

 

_labyrinth_

“Your tattoo,” Callum asks and it’s not really a question. Keeping his whole back hidden from the man he’s sleeping with is not exactly an easy job — Francis had tried for the first weeks and then simply decided he couldn’t do it anymore. He had been expecting that question for quite some time.

“Do you think it looks good on me?” nevertheless Francis tries to deflect the question hidden in the phrase, smiling warmly at Callum and leaning over to kiss him.

“Everything looks good on you,” he answers with the usual blunt tone, so different from the meaning of the phrase or the way he’s looking at him. Francis _knows_ and loves him. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

“I think I’ll take your compliment anyway.”

“My brother is your soulmate.”

Those words hung in the air between them, dragging a tense silence behind. Callum is looking at him and Francis doesn't know where to look — doesn’t know what to do and doesn’t even know what to think.

“I think so,” he finally answers, even though Callum didn’t really ask anything. “I’ve _known_ for a few years, but I think I’ve always suspected.”

Callum is still silent and Francis sighs wearily when he catches a glimpse of his tattoo in the mirror of their room.

“You haven’t told him.”

“Do you think I should tell him?”

“Do you _want_ to tell him?”

“Not really. I don’t like to be vulnerable, you know that. And we both know he certainly doesn’t love me back,” Francis sighs again, avoiding Callum’s eyes. He doesn’t really want to admit aloud his feelings for Arthur, even though they both know. “But maybe I owe him th—”

“You don’t owe him jack shit, Francis. _We_ don’t owe him jack shit,” Callum angrily interrupts him and Francis knows that resentment goes far beyond their relationship. He isn’t really involved in those brotherly matters — or rather he _wasn’t_ until very recently.

“I could make you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

“But that’s not enough.”

“It’s enough for me. But it won’t be enough when you’ll understand who your soulmate is. Then I’ll be alone again.”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone,” Francis smiles because he knows this to be true and at the same time he knows that wouldn’t be enough for him.

Francis smiles sadly — but Callum kisses him and for a few moments everything is perfect.

 

_sleep paralysis_

When he’s alone again, the blueberries bushes disappear.

He panics, when this happens, remembering his father and Byzantium’s marks fading and everything he was taught. He panics and immediately thinks something must have happened to Arthur. But how could that be? England is fine, his country is doing more than fine and when he asks for news from the other side of the Channel, everything seems okay.

After a few weeks the blueberries are completely gone but between the roaring lion and the crown and the two roses, new marks are forming.

Francis looks in the mirror a servant is holding for him and carefully traces the outline of a skull, almost as minimal and geometrical as the lion.

A skull. Even in circumstances like these — between the anxiety of the last days and his worries and his usual heartache — Francis can't help but grin. A skull. This is _so_ Arthur.

 

_meditation_

Francis doesn’t really like the sea. He’s always been partial to the countryside or a big, vivacious city. The sea? The sea is nice when you’re walking down a sunny beach or enjoying the beautiful view from a cliff.

Not when you’re on a ship in the middle of the sea and anything bad could happen, any moment now. No, thank you very much.

“So, you’re a buccaneer now?” he tries to focus on something other than his nausea or the way the ship rolls on the stormy sea. Damn his stupid idea and damn his stupid feelings.

“I prefer pirate.”

“You must be the only one who prefers being called a pirate.”

Arthur sighs, impatient, without even looking at Francis. He didn’t want him there, that much was very clear. Unfortunately for him, Francis knows his way around people.

“I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“I told you, diplomatic issues. And I wanted to... check on you.”

“Why, were you hoping I was dying?”

Francis closes his eyes for a moment, trying to hold down the wave of feelings and memories those words just brought back. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice what’s happening and just keeps spitting out malicious words. “No, you wouldn’t be here if you knew I was dying. You’d be getting ready to take away everything I have. Like everybody else.”

“That’s unfair. We have our history, I know, but-“

“But what? You’re just a lying thief, like everybody else in the whole fucking world.”

“You’re being paranoid, Arthur.”

“I’m being paranoid because I _have_ to be paranoid!” and it doesn’t take a genius to know there’s something wrong with Arthur.

 

_mesmer_

They don't talk again and the marks on Francis’ back grow and grow and grow. The tattoo takes more space and expands and Francis can't help but think that this happens because he can't keep under control his own feelings.

He never felt so alone in centuries of existence. The whole world is trying to survive and he’s trying to survive too — and that means that blood ties or friendship don’t mean anything to anyone. He sees enemies everywhere and yet can’t stop thinking, can’t stop _fantasizing_ about what could be.

His back is now filled with thorns and briers and Francis doesn't really understand what that could mean.

 

_doppelgänger_

Sometimes he feels like years have passed by without him even existing. He doesn’t remember things that happened, people he met, speeches he made, decisions he supported.

Not that his decisions matter, really. Francis remember his father reminiscing about a time when he could really take the reins of his own country, of his own empire.

Francis never knew such a time: he was too young and then too old. His entire existence feels like this: too young to care and then too old and tired.

He wonders if Antonio feels the same way, if anybody else in the world feels the same way. He wonders if Arthur feels the same way — he wonders _what_ Arthur feels all the time.

He wonders once again if he should share his feelings with him, if he should tell Arthur about his marks. Francis doesn’t think, not even for a second, that Arthur could reciprocate his feelings. That’s not the point, that’s not why there’s a part of him that wants to tell Arthur.

He wonders if telling him would make _anything_ simpler. Arthur would exploit his weakness in ways he doesn't even have the strength to imagine, but maybe that would really be simpler. Easier. Maybe he would just… stop existing? And then again, what’s the point of living an eternity alone?

“For God’s sake, France, stop staring at me and just sign those damn papers.” Arthur looks angry and smug at the same time and Francis really, fucking hate himself.

He can’t control his feelings and sometimes he’s not sure he can control anything else.

 

_void_

War comes, faster than before, bloodier than before, and Francis is once again alone. A first war comes and then another one, and even in his sanest state of mind Francis can't tell which one is worst.

His tattoo changes once again, subtly and almost indiscernibly: the thorns slowly cover everything else and keep on growing on his back. The skull is still there, the roses are still there, the lion is still there — until the crown disappears.

He notices too late, when the crown is already been gone for a while, and for weeks he can’t muster enough strength to wonder what that could possibly mean.

Then again, there are days in which he can't even remember he _has_ a soulmate.

 

_telepathy_

There are things Francis can’t control. He thought he could control everything, once, when he was young and foolish and surrounded by love and affection and a family.

He knows, now, that the things he can actually control are few and so very unimportant.

America is talking incessantly since the beginning of that meeting and Francis isn't really listening — partly because he’s thinking about other things and partly because he really doesn't appreciate this whole _benevolent leader of the world_ act that is going on. Centuries of existence have made him wary.

Francis can feel a tirelessly gaze fixed upon him from the other side of the room and it doesn't matter how much he tries to ignore it, the lump in his throat doesn’t go away.

Germany has been looking at him since the beginning of the meeting, probably thinking he’s doing an impeccable job at being subtle. Francis can feel his hands shaking and he quickly hides them under the table.

Germany shouldn’t be there. There are at least three people who shouldn’t be in that room with them, but at least two of them don’t have the nerve to _stare at him_.

Francis can feel his control slipping away. He’s already struggling to breathe and he doesn’t even dare close his eyes because he already knows what would happen — he knows the bitter taste of his memories and the screams and the blood and the loud noises.

There are so many things he can’t control, but the way others see him is not one of them. The perceptions of the whole world is not one of them. He still does have the upper hand, they never stopped and never will stop thinking about him as a spineless idiot and this? This, he can work with.

“This meeting is _so_ boring. I’m gonna go outside and find a nice glass of wine and possibly my will to continue,” he doesn’t really wait for an answer — he certainly isn’t asking for permission — and just leaves the room.

He knows they won’t follow him. He knows they’ll continue their meeting and probably roll their eyes at his bratty, childish behavior. He knows he’ll be scolded and he doesn't really care.

The wall is solid and hard and _real_ against his back.

Francis breathes in and breathes out, pushes his shoulders against the wall and tries to ground his body. Francis breathes in and breathes out and doesn't really notice when Arthur leaves the room and stands in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Me? Of course, why wouldn’t I?” he tries to smile and to fake it but Arthur isn’t that blind.

“You are so fucking stupid, Francis,” but that sentence doesn't even have the smallest amount of annoyance in it. “I don’t want _them_ there, too. I know you feel the same way. I know... I know it’s hard.”

Arthur sits next to him and puts his jacket on Francis’ shoulder like that’s a common thing between them. Francis doesn’t really know how to react but he sure knows he’s looking foolish — with his eyes wide open and his dumb silence.

“It’s okay, I won't tell anyone. Come find me if this happens again. You shouldn’t do this alone.”

 

_perfection_

Eventually, things get better.

It takes years but his nightmares stop and the loneliness he felt almost goes away. Antonio comes back from his own dark place and they’re able to put aside everything that happened between them and just _be brothers again._ He manages to talk to Ludwig and put aside their shared past, too. Callum is once again by his side and everything feels almost perfect again.

Except the loneliness doesn't really go away.

Francis still looks at his back in the mirror every morning, still brushes the tattoo with his fingertips, still feels that hole inside of his chest.

One day the thorns on his back start gradually retreating, becoming less and less in number. The lion now roars in all its glory and the roses aren’t weighed down anymore.

Francis still doesn't understand what all of this means.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day the first mark appears on his arm, Arthur just pretends it isn’t there. He looks at the small, delicate design — he observes the pale, violet flowers and the lean leaves and then just stops thinking about it. Or at least he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Callum is obviously Scotland, Saoirse is Ireland and Ossian is Northern Ireland.  
> If you're curious about the timeline: _illusion, everything, study_ and _rational_ \- **slightly before and after 55 BC** ; _spiral_ \- **early middle ages** ; _irrational_ and _shock_ \- **hundred years' wars** ; _nightmare_ \- **marriage of Mary, queen of Scots to the Francis II, king of France** ; _mirror, sliding doors_ \- **golden age of piracy** ; _prison_ \- **late late 18th century** ; _mind palace_ \- **1920, années folles** ; _dream_ \- **wwii** ; _madness_ \- **post wwii**.
> 
> All the prompts are written for [Lande di Fandom](http://www.landedifandom.net) @ thINKtober.

_illusion_

Arthur had to learn many things on his own. He only has a few memories of his mother — of a time when he was young and careless and free — and even fewer memories of his mother explaining _things_ to him.

The rest of his early memories are just flashes of his siblings: Callum always frowning, Saoirse always laughing and Ossian, too young to do anything else, always crying. And then there’s nothing: one of the first things he remembers is the feeling of being _alone_.

And while it’s not necessarily a bad feeling — he likes being alone, he feels comfortable on his own —, Arthur also knows he’d be a fool to pretend he never feels _lonely_.

He doesn’t like to admit it, of course, and obviously doesn’t want anyone to know his weaknesses. And yes, he’s aware at least his own family knows this. He’s very, painfully aware of this, always has been.

This has been his greatest fear for a long time — and he’s also painfully aware of the way he reacts to fear: it’s not pretty. He still doesn’t really understand why his siblings forgave all the terrible things he did to them.

He still doesn’t know if anybody else would forgive him — and there are days when he _doesn’t want_ to be forgiven.

He’s still a work in progress.

 

_everything_

Arthur doesn’t really remember the exact moment he found out about soulmates and tattoos and what those things actually meant. He remembers hearing tales, growing up, and songs about _your true soulmate_ and a lot of other things he didn’t really care about nor understood.

His sister explains everything, to the best of her abilities. Arthur only knows their father because of Saoirse’s tales — but it’s pretty clear neither him nor their mother were particularly keen on talking about this subject. Or maybe just on explaining things. He mostly remembers moments of affection and Saoirse and Callum always talk about great adventures with their father.

“What about you? What’s your tattoo?” he finally asks, when he stops thinking about their parents. Ossian is still fast asleep and doesn’t seem to be bothered by their voices. To be honest, Ossian doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything.

Callums scoffs and shakes his head. “Nosey as usual.”

“Ignore him,” Saoirse laughs and takes his hand, pulling him closer. “I don’t have one. I don’t really know if this is because I don’t have a soulmate or because my soulmate isn’t born yet. Or something else”

“You mean you could have a _human_ soulmate?”

“Or no soulmate at all,” Callum snaps and then just leaves, without saying anything else.

“He’s just... he’s frustrated because he has a few lines on his shoulder and he doesn’t understand what those could mean. And it’s been like this for years.”

“… I don’t like any of this. I want to be like you, I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Trust me, you don’t want this,” Saoirse is smiling but her eyes are sad and Arthur _has_ to look away.

 

_study_

The day the first mark appears on his arm, Arthur just pretends it isn’t there. He looks at the small, delicate design — he observes the pale, violet flowers and the lean leaves and then just _stops_ thinking about it. Or at least he tries.

“Your soulmate is a pussy,” Callum laughs when he catches a glimpse of the tattoo, but then Saoirse hits him on the head and he quickly apologizes. Arthur doesn’t care.

He doesn’t have a tattoo. He doesn’t _want_ a tattoo, no, thank you very much. Doesn’t matter what Callum says, doesn’t matter what Saoirse says: he doesn’t want a damn soulmate.

 

_rational_

There are a million reasons Arthur doesn’t want a soulmate.

He sees Callum’s pain, he sees Saoirse’s pain, he heard the stories of so many tragic loves and he just doesn’t understand _why_ he should end up suffering too. And for what? A chance in million to find the perfect one? Why should he care?

He certainly doesn’t like the odds.

It’s not like Arthur doesn’t want _someone_ to love, it’s just that he doesn’t understand why this should depend on a stupid tattoo on his arm. Callum seems happier since he came to terms to his useless tattoo: he said he found someone he likes and really do seem happier. So why can’t Arthur do the same?

He keeps thinking about what Callum had said: about this pretty boy who shouldn’t be there and is _like them_ and, while Saoirse is way, Arthur can’t help but being curious. And that’s probably why he decided to follow his older brother.

He hears their voices, before he can see them, deep in the forest where almost no one dares to venture.

“Stop leaving me behind!”

“You said you could find your way through the forest!”

“Well maybe I lied! I live in a _palace,_ back home!”

“You should try harder, city boy!”

Then, Arthur sees him, and he’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his whole existence. The other boy — _Francis_ — is standing right next to a tree, looking around with a pout that should make Arthur hate him and instead just makes his breath shaky.

He doesn’t look human — and of course, he isn’t completely human, no, but he doesn’t look human like _them_. He doesn’t even know how to describe him: Arthur simply stares at him for an incredibile amount of time, wondering how such a creature could actually be real.

Arthur’s lungs stop working when he focuses on the flower crown Francis is wearing. The same flowers Arthur has on his arm.

He runs away and doesn’t look back, heart hammering in his chest, trying his best to erase everything he just saw.

It doesn’t work.

 

_spiral_

The flowers on his arm grow and grow — and Arthur still ignores them. Their design is incredibly delicate and intricate at the same time, their colours are amazing and bright.

Arthur lives, day after day, pretending he has no tattoo at all.

Saoirse hates him for this, and Arthur knows; Callum hates him for this, and Arthur knows. He understands why they suffer and this just makes him more committed to his decision. Life is already difficult without adding all the problems that come with this _soulmates thing._

It doesn't help that he can’t stop thinking about Francis.

 

_irrational_

Arthur doesn't remember the moment he decided Francis’ hate was better than his indifference. He doesn’t remember the moment he thought that was the best decision he could make, but that doesn’t matter anymore. He’s still pretty sure of his opinion and anyway it’s too late, now.

Arthur knows he has fucked up. He knows.

He doesn’t want to love _anyone_ — he doesn't want to care about his siblings, let alone someone else. Love is weakness and he doesn’t want any weakness.

The fact that he doesn’t want to love anyone doesn’t stop his heart to feel what it feels. Doesn't stop his mind to think Francis is still the most beautiful man he has ever seen.

“I don't want to fight you. I know it’s out of our hands, I know we can’t change what our rulers want but— we can at least try. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

They’ve been fighting for so long he doesn't even remember what it was _before_ and apparently Francis feels the same way. Arthur could tell him, could talk about his feelings, could tell him what he think of this conflicts, could even tell him about his damn tattoo. Arthur could tell him everything — Arthur could be weak. He doesn't trust Francis. He doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t want to care about anyone, he doesn’t want to love anyone.

“I guess it’s a shame I _do_ want to fight.”

Francis leaves with a betrayed look in his eyes and Arthur knows. He knows he has fucked up.

 

_shock_

When the flowers start disappearing, Arthur panics.

He doesn’t care about all this _soulmate thing,_ he doesn’t give a shit about his tattoo or his soulmate — he still doesn’t want a fucking soulmate. But he does care about Francis.

He’s frantic to know what’s happening on the other side of the sea: is Francis okay? Is _France_ okay?

The answers he gets are not what he expected: apparently there’s nothing wrong with either Francis or his country.

He’s glad, sure, though he pretends he doesn’t care at all. He just doesn’t understand why he doesn’t have a tattoo anymore.

 

_nightmare_

It’s only after a few years of war that Arthur suddenly understands something he never thought of.

They’ve been fighting for so long he doesn’t even remember when (or why) they started and he can’t help but have mixed feelings about this.

He does want the best for his country and for his people — and according to many of his kings and advisors, that _best_ comes from more territories and more lands taken from the French. Or from any other country, for what that matters.

He does want the best for his country, but there’s a voice inside of him that doesn’t stop talking. _What if this kills Francis?_

Nobody knows exactly what does it take for _one of them_ to die: some survive even the hardest conquests, some disappear after less traumatic events. The point is: nobody knows.

And every treaty he signs, every victory, every fight, every year of that centuries-long war is another chance to see Francis disappear from their world. There are times he finds himself _happy_ to lose.

Francis seeks comfort and safety in the arms of others and Arthur can't really blame him. It’s different when he finds out that the comfort is also physical — and that it mostly comes from Callum.

They appear in public together so often and seem so happy and he really shouldn’t be there to see them — he’s so fucking stupid, why did he decide to do something so fucking dumb?

He doesn’t care about Francis. He doesn’t care about Francis. He doesn't care about _anyone_ : caring is weakness, love is weakness, affection is weakness. He can’t afford weakness.

Arthur hurts and while his heart is in pain, his hatred grows.

 

_mirrors_

Turns out it’s not that he doesn't have a tattoo anymore, it’s just that his tattoo shifted and changed so much it apparently disappeared before coming back.

The flowers are still there, just as beautiful as Arthur remembered. The colours are the same, the shapes are the same, the disposition is still the same. The stems are different. They were simple, before, just simple and ordinary stems.

Now they’re covered in thorns.

The thorns grow and grow every day a little bit more, until they begin to suffocate the delicate flowers.

Until the flowers die.

 

_sliding doors_

As time passes, Arthur finds out that there’s a loop that helps.

He’s in pain and when he hurts someone else, he’s in _less pain;_ by hurting everybody else, he’s still and will always be alone. And he’s in pain because he’s alone.

When he manages to _think_ , he understands that this loop doesn't help at all, that this is just one of his bad habits that has gotten way out of hand. The problem is: those moments in which he manages to be clear-headed enough to think, are fewer and fewer.

He doesn’t really know what’s happening: he lives his life between London and the sea and he loses count of the days.

They tell him about meetings and battles and new lands to conquer and he remembers only half of those things. The rest of the time is just a blurred fog.

He remembers Francis — he remembers Francis asking to see him, he remembers shouting and anger and he still doesn't know why Francis would want to see him.

Everyone around him is a danger. Everyone else in the whole world is a danger. He doesn't trust anyone — he can't trust anyone but himself.

It doesn’t matter if it’s his family or the man he loves: he doesn’t trust anyone, he can’t trust anyone. He is right and everybody else is wrong.

Paranoia is his only company.

 

_prison_

The thorns don’t go away, and it gets to a point where his whole arm is covered in thorns.

In his clear-headed moments, Arthur can’t help but worry about Francis. He doesn’t know what this means, he doesn’t understand what the thorns mean, he doesn’t understand why the flowers aren’t there anymore.

It doesn’t take a genius to know it’s not a good sign.

At the end of the century, the flowers grow again: they’re sharp and their colours are dark and they’re made of steel.

Arthur hears rumors of what’s happening in France and understands a little bit better. The thorns are still there.

 

_mind palace_

As time passes, Arthur finds out that his loop doesn’t work anymore. He doesn’t know why it worked before and doesn't work anymore now. He doesn't really care. He’s too tired to care.

He’s too tired to pretend he doesn’t care about other people. Too tired to pretend he doesn't worry about Francis during the war, too tired to pretend he doesn’t worry about Francis after the war.

So he visits Paris for a while, hoping to find the courage to go see Francis. And he _sees_ Francis, he certainly does. It’s just that Francis doesn’t see him: Francis is throwing a party, a massive party, and Arthur manages to sneak in.

And he manages to see Francis, beautiful as ever, in a beautiful _gown_. Arthur knows he should be shocked because Francis is a man and he’s wearing a gown — but he’s shocked because he never thought Francis could look even more gorgeous than he usually does.

The night goes on and Arthur thinks he just saw Francis dancing with Josephine Baker and he doesn’t really know what to do with that information. During the rest of the evening he sees him talking to Thomas Stearns Eliot, smoking with Ernest Hemingway, arguing with Pablo Picasso.

Arthur doesn't get too close: he stays hidden behind the moving crowd, behind any door or piece of forniture he can find. He doesn't want Francis to see him, and at the same time he’d like nothing more that to dance with him — and to hold him close and to kiss him and to see his smile.

Francis smiles and talks and dance and seems perfectly happy — Arthur does his best to ignore those moment when Francis' eyes are clouded by _something else_.

It’s not until the sunrise that Arthur manages to sneak close enough to actually _see_ what has been in front of his eyes. Francis’ dress is backless and when he turns to talk to someone else, Arthur can see the tattoo.

He’s not stupid. He knows what that tattoo means. He knows what every single mark means.

He walks away with rage roaring in his heart.

 

_dream_

Arthur is filled with anger and pain — both because of what he has inside and because of what’s happening to the world once again, in less than twenty years.

Francis is his soulmate. Arthur is Francis’ soulmate. He could’ve known all this time, they could’ve do something, talk about this but instead? Francis kept that as a secret and they spent centuries without knowing.

Arthur covers his tattoo every time he can, he avoids looking at it and thinking about it as much as he can.

He almost doesn't notice — between the war and the bombings and the pain and the worry — when the lilies on his arm turn bloody.

 

_madness_

When the war ends, Arthur takes his time to recover and still doesn't know how to feel about Francis.

“Why are you mad at him? You did exactly the same,” Ossian asks when they’re not fighting — and they fight all the time, his whole family hates him and to be honest? He kind of understands why.

“You're an asshole,” Callum spits out and Arthur knows he must have talked with Ossian. “What did you expect? That Francis would’ve thrown himself into your arms and tell you you’re his soulmate? No one would want you as their soulmate.”

Those words hurts like hell but he doesn’t even pretend Callum isn’t right. He never wanted a soulmate and he certainly acted like he didn’t want _anyone at all._ He still doesn't want a soulmate, he’s stille pretty skeptical about this whole thing. And when he really thinks about it, being Francis’ soulmate doesn't even mean that Francis _loves_ him. He certainly didn’t do anything to make Francis love him.

The years pass and Arthur starts _trying_.

He tries to be better, to trust other people, to be less of a dick, to be less paranoid, to express his feeling a little bit more, to seek forgiveness from the people he hurt.

Saoirse is the first one to forgive him — he knew this would be the case and at the same time he feared she wouldn’t forgive him at all. Ossian forgives him. Callum doesn’t avoid him anymore and to Arthur that’s a huge victory.

He tries to be there for Francis and to ask nothing in return. He knows Francis is skeptical in the beginning — why shouldn’t he be? — but he keeps trying until even their relationship, as broken as it was, seems a little bit mended.

Arthur doesn’t really ask for anything else.

 

_sanity_

One day the thorns on his arm start gradually retreating, becoming less and less in number. The pale and delicate flowers he had at the beginning come back, along with the lilies, and they’re not weighed down anymore.

Arthur remembers the thorns on Francis’ back and he thinks maybe now he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to ask me anything (or just talk to me about fandom and stuff, idk) come @ [twitter](https://twitter.com/seasidhe).  
> Stay tuned for the final chapter!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think you’d like to go on a date with me?”  
> “On a date? With you?”  
> “Uhm. Yes.”  
> Francis doesn’t answer for a few moments and Arthur is almost ready to run away. But then Francis smiles softly and curls up against his side.  
> “I think I’d really love to.”

“Francis? Is that you?”

“Arthur... hi!” Francis smiles and — maybe, just maybe — slightly blushes and Arthur knows he has never seen anyone more beautiful. It’s not the first time he thinks this — in fact he can pinpoint the exact first time he did — and it won’t be the last. Francis is and will always be the most beautiful human being in the whole fucking world.

“What are you doing here?” and it _does_ come out a lot more aggressive than Arthur intended. Once again, he feels really fucking stupid.

“There’s a musical I really wanted to see but it’s still pretty new and it’ll take some time before I can see it in Paris, so... here I am?”

Francis is still smiling when the whole world suddenly starts spinning in front of Arthur’s eyes.

“A musical?” he doesn’t even have to ask, he doesn’t even have to seek confirmation: his heart is sure, his mind is certain. “… I guess we’ll be in the same room for the next three hours.”

“You... you’re here too?”

“That’s-”

“That’s kind of a dumb question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe just a little.”

They both laugh and it’s awkward and dumb and the most amazing thing that has ever happened to Arthur in his whole life.

“So you like musicals?” he asks, trying to focus on something other than Francis’ smile and Francis’ mouth and Francis’ lips.

“That’s-”

“That’s kind of a dumb question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe just a little.”

 

Arthur would love to say the second time is also a coincidence. It isn’t. It really isn’t.

One of the perks of being who he is — and knowing every single theatre in London like the back of his hands — is that he can ask for a few favors he reallyshouldn’t be asking for. Like always having tickets for himself. Or asking to know when and for which show _a certain person_ books tickets.

“So... Francis. Here again?” he’s almost afraid Francis is gonna show just how annoyed he really is, but instead the other man smiles and laughs — and that really is the most beautiful sound in the world.

“This is so weird. The same musical, the same night? Again?”

And just like that, Arthur feels like a fucking stalker — and, _oh God_ , he supposes he is. Francis is still smiling, though, and he seems to smile even more when he finds out they are actually sitting next to each other. Arthur does his best not to dwell on the poignant look Francis gives him.

“I was thinking...” he asks, when the show is over and he’s walking Francis to his hotel. “Maybe you could stay for dinner? Only if you—”

“I’d really love to.”

“Really? I mean... great! What— what would you like to eat? My fridge is always empty but I’m sure we can—”

 

“Callum tells me things are better between you two.”

“Callum told you that? Callum? My brother?”

“Yes, you dumb grumpy man. Callum, your brother. And Saoirse too. She actually seems pretty happy.”

“You talk to Saoirse?”

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

“I... I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, we often go shopping and I help her buy the most beautiful clothes.”

“Really?”

“No. She takes me out to drink.”

“That seems more likely.”

“And there was that one time when she tried to make me go bungee jumping with her.”

“Yes, that really sounds like my sister.”

 

When Arthur wakes up, there’s a voicemail waiting for him. He knows it’s probably someone from work, but he just dreamed about Francis and he can’t help but feeling a little bit hopeful.

“Hey, Arthur. It’s me, Francis,” and then a laugh, punching Arthur right in the stomach. “I mean, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

He can’t help but smile — those words are so similar to that first conversation outside the theatre and suddenly he feels so damn _warm_ inside.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come over for dinner, next week. I mean, we’ve got that meeting here in Paris and I thought... you’ve been really kind the last time and I wanted to return the favor.”

The warmth inside him disappears, and so does his smile. Of course: returning the favor. It’s not like it could ever be something more than that. Francis’ kindness, as usual.

Months later, just after one of their work meeting, just outside the building in Bruxelles. Francis is talking with Germany, smiling and waving his hands like he always does when he’s excited — Arthur thinks it’s lovely. But then again, Arthur thinks everything Francis does is lovely.

He waits, because he really doesn’t want to talk to Germany outside work and he really doesn’t want to annoy Francis.

He wonders if there’s something between them. It’s a weird thought, given everything that has happened, but he knows there could be some truth to this. He sees those lingering touches and those smiles and the weirdly protective look on Germany’s eyes.

 

He hates everything about this, and it’s no news to him. This time, though, there’s something different from his usual jealousy — the same he already felt when he had to see Francis and his own brother, over and over again.

He’s worried, now. He’s not just jealous, he’s not just angry when he thinks someone else can be with Francis the same way he always wanted to be. He’s worried about him. He’s worried about his happiness, about his well being. And that’s really fucking new.

Francis notices him after a few minutes, while Arthur pretends he’s busy texting to someone — and oh, God, he feels so fucking stupid and he’s really fucking tired of feeling stupid.

When he looks away from his screen, Francis is kissing Germany on the left cheek and Arthur’s heart sinks in his stomach.

“Is everything okay?” Francis asks when they’re alone, and he seems genuinely worried.

“Yes, yes, of course. Everything is fine. I just wanted to talk to you for a few seconds, if that’s okay.”

Francis smiles and visibly relaxes and for a few seconds Arthur almost forget what he wanted to tell him. “I… I got you tickets for a new musical production. I thought you may like it and—”

“Tickets? Plural?”

“Uh... yeah. I got tickets, plural. You can take anyone you like, of course, they’re yours and they’re a gift.”

“Would you like to come with me? I’d like you to come with me.”

“You don’t have to...”

“I know I don’t have to. I’d like to.”

Arthur doesn’t understand why Francis is being so kind, or why on earth he actually wants to use the other ticket to invite him out. He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t really fucking care.

 

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“I guess so. Ask away.”

“You and... Germany. Are you two together?”

“Oh… We were. For a few years, quite some time ago. We decided we’re better off as friends.”

“You both decided?”

“Yes, it was a mutual decision. A mutual break up.”

“So you’re okay. You’re not hurting?”

“You’re worrying about me being hurt?”

“… Yeah.”

“That’s very... kind of you.”

“You wanted to say weird.”

“Maybe.”

 

Arthur thinks about their tattoo a lot. He wonders if he should tell Francis, wonders if that’s the best thing to do. He wonders if telling him means he can finally be happy — he fantasizes about their future together, about Francis’ reaction, about everything he could have if only he manages to find the courage to tell Francis everything.

He keeps thinking, though, because Arthur is Arthur and he always overthink everything.

He keeps thinking and thinking and thinking until he decides he doesn’t want to tell Francis — and that’s so different from the Arthur he was before, so different from everything he would’ve done before.

He doesn’t want to tell Francis about their tattoo. He doesn’t want Francis to feel _forced_ to be with him.

If there’s any chance Francis actually _wants_ to be with him, it won’t be because of a fucking tattoo.

“Sometimes the only thing I can seem to do it’s thinking about everything that has happened in centuries of life.”

“Do you mean between us? Or in general?”

“I guess both. Our history together is so linked to our own personal history that sometimes...”

“It feels like they’re the same thing.”

“Like we lived together.”

“Except we didn’t.”

 

They’re once again out together, and once again because of Francis kindness — it doesn’t matter how hard Arthur tries, he can’t stop thinking Francis is here only because he feels he needs to.

But Francis smiles and laughs like he really means to and his eyes shine and he leans against Arthur when they sits together and Arthur can almost pretend this is all true.

And maybe this _is_ all true, maybe his usual paranoia — his most faithful companion, the one that has never really left him — doesn’t want him to understand that this is all really true.

Francis smiles and laughs and touches him and Arthur almost talk without realizing. “Do you think you’d like to go on a date with me?”

“On a date? With you?”

“Uhm. Yes.”

Francis doesn’t answer for a few moments and Arthur is almost ready to run away. But then Francis smiles softly and curls up against his side.

“I think I’d really love to.”

The next months are like a dream to Arthur. It doesn’t really change anything: they keep seeing each other and going out together and doing the same things they did before — to the point Arthur isn’t actually sure they weren’t dating before!

And at the same time, everything changes. Francis looks even more beautiful and certainly seems happier and every time they see each other there’s some sort of a subtext in everything they do.

Arthur never really considered himself a romantic person but suddenly he’s not so sure anymore. He wants to lavish Francis with gifts and flowers and everything he could love, he wants to court him properly, he wants to make him feel the most important persone in the whole fucking universe — because that’s exactly what Francis is to him, the most important persone in the whole fucking universe.

Callum makes fun of him, Saoirse and Ossian start laughing every time he talks about Francis and he doesn’t care a single bit.

 

It’s almost weird the way Arthur now understands everything about Francis. He went from not knowing him at all to really _get_ the meaning of every small gesture.

He sees when Francis covers his back to hide his tattoo and understands that he’s doing this because he’s afraid, not because he wants to lie to him. He sees it in the way Francis looks nervous, almost like he’s waiting for all of this to end. He sees it in the way he looks guilty and afraid when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking.

“I have to tell you something,” Francis begins, when they’ve been dating for almost a year — and a single year? It’s both so much time and so little time.

“You do?”

“Yes. It’s something I should’ve tell you a long time ago. Something I shouldn’t have kept as a secret.”

Francis doesn’t really have to be more specific, Arthur already figured out everything. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

“Believe me, I do,” Arthur whispers, cupping Francis’ head in his hands and kissing him gently. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but there’s something _I_ need to tell you.”

Francis looks curious and ashamed at the same time and the only thing Arthur actually wants is to see him happy.

“I love you.”

There will be a time to talk about their tattoos and centuries wasted on loving each other without finding the courage to say anything and pain and ache and suffering and everything that concerns being soulmates. Someday, not now.

Now? Now it’s only about _them_.

“I love you too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This thing is over! I actually did it!  
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, I really appreciate you guys <3  
> If you want to ask me anything (or just talk to me about fandom and stuff, idk) come @ [twitter](https://twitter.com/seasidhe).  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to ask me anything (or just talk to me about fandom and stuff, idk) come @ [twitter](https://twitter.com/seasidhe).  
> Stay tuned for the next chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> [handwritten stuff!](https://sea-sidhe.dreamwidth.org/385.html)


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